


Flickers Between Radio Silence

by mia6363



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, F/M, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Much Love to Edward R Murrow, Pining, Post-Apocalypse, blatant disregard for science, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-11 01:34:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8947903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: Talia,” Peter spoke without taking his eyes off his niece, “I’ll do it. I doubt it matters to them who the candidate is. Any warm body should do.”





	

The Cold Spring town square was always lively when the Tribes came to trade. 

Amber light cast the square in vivid splotches of orange and gold while rusted and gnarled vehicles stood stark against the cobblestones. Peter Hale, like all the other adults, stared in morbid curiosity mixed with snide relief that he lived in Cold Spring and not the urban sprawl with the Tribes. 

Children watched with glee as different Tribes hollered and shoved each other until Peter saw the groups slide into harmonious motion. There were different Tribes, distinguished by color and markings, and though several of them arrived with more members, they all deferred to one Tribe. 

Three members of the Yukimura Tribe clapped their hands and cast a hush over the others. They were dressed light for the summer but they still had brightly painted nails and glittering rings. There was one young man that Peter could always pick out. 

Peter knew him by his long legs and deep scratchy voice. He even knew him down to his mannerisms, how he’d jiggle his wrists when he paused for thought or how he’d scrape the bottom of his boots along the pavement when he had too much energy. 

Unlike the other Tribes, the Yukimura Tribe wore traditional Japanese fox masks that smiled with a coy slice of red against the white face. 

“So, Jackson,” The Tattooed Fox drawled out in a teasing lilt that made the children titter with giggles while goose bumps broke out along the back of Peter’s neck. “Do you have any _good music_ or just that warped shit that barely fits in the player?”

Raspy laughter came from behind the fox mask and a blonde kid shoved the Fox. 

“Shut up, I’ve got the best collection of old art,” he raised his voice at the last bit. “Just hold your damn shoelaces.” 

He fiddled with a stereo and pressed play. 

The Jackson character grimaced despite bobbing his head to the beat. Batteries were not easy to come by and though it would be annoying to waste them, the music drew the citizens of Cold Spring closer.

The Tattooed Fox started dancing in odd, willowy movements that were both awkward and graceful. His fellow Foxes, a girl and a muscled young man with bells on his ankles, joined him and soon all the different Tribes were singing along. 

The music itself was electric and had soulful vocals. The lyrics were explicit, but the children didn’t pay attention to the intricacies of it, only the way it made them duck and weave to the rhythm. 

As adults ventured to Jackson with offers of trade, the Tattooed Fox suddenly turned toward Peter. 

Peter froze, his face hot as the Tattooed Fox twirled and bounced his way closer. 

“Hey, sweetheart, would you do me the _honor_ of having this dance?”

Peter felt his peers’ burning stares. He should be revolted; he should sternly decline and wash his hands if the Tattooed Fox touched him. He felt like his secrets were laid bare, about how his thoughts would linger on those long legs, raspy laugh, and pale throat—about what was under that always-smiling fox mask. 

Rationally, Peter knew his thoughts still remained private, but his throat was still dry as the Tattooed Fox drew closer—only to swoop down to a little girl dressed in a frilly lavender dress with satin ribbons. She squealed, peals of laughter a delightful contrast to the weathered chuckles coming from the Tattooed Fox. He held the girl’s tiny hands in his. The gold rings on his fingers glittered as he dipped and twirled her to the beat. 

Peter jumped when a hand closed around his wrist. 

“Uncle Peter.” Cora squeezed through the crowd. “Come on. They’ve wrapped up negotiations and Mom wants us there to hear them.” 

“Ooh.” Peter wagged his eyebrows until his niece laughed, “sounds dramatic.” 

He turned his back to the dancing Foxes and the other Tribes. Trading days had a set schedule. First there were the normal drop offs and trades, ones that were regular occurrences and expected. Then, there were meetings between heads of families and Tribe leaders. Once the meetings were over the Tribes returned to their far away homes. 

They walked down the stone streets lined with well-kept houses and gardens until they reached Hale Manor. 

As they neared the door, a single masked Fox passed them, the Yukimura leader. She was of average height, an older woman who always wore her hair in a tight bun and never accepted offers of tea or water. She strode past them and Peter kept his eyes forward despite the temptation to stare. 

The other Tribes dealt in tangible goods like Old World antiquities or refurbished technology. 

The Yukimura Tribe dealt in information and knowledge, and it was difficult to trade with someone so selective. 

Peter didn’t agree with his sister’s stance on many things, but they did agree that knowledge, above all else, was priceless. He hoped that Talia’s negotiation was more successful than her previous seven attempts. 

The wooden stairs creaked. Derek and Laura sat on the refurbished benches across from Talia’s desk. Derek and Laura, like Peter, had learned to hide any excitement at the hope of more contact with the Tribes. Cora was approaching an age where she needed to learn the same detachment, but Peter couldn’t bring himself to scold her. She was a vibrating bundle of energy, like she was dancing with the Tattooed Fox and his friends instead of sitting on the uncomfortable wood. 

“So? Were you able to work anything out with the Yukimura leader?” 

Derek leaned forward but Peter and Laura stayed still as Talia scrutinized them, to make sure that they kept their curiosity in check. 

“She made an offer, all or nothing, and we’ll need to have an answer for when she returns.” Peter clenched his jaw to keep the _give them whatever they want_ from pushing past his teeth. Talia met Peter’s eyes as if she heard his thoughts despite his restraint. She sighed. “They’ll come to us first and take prioritized requests… if we marry off one of our own into their Tribe.” 

Everyone turned to stare at the youngest single person in the room. 

Cora Hale, who Peter had seen laugh as she defeated fencing opponents and who had the same thirst for history as Peter, went white as a sheet. Peter cupped her face with his hands and hoped his warmth would ground her. 

“Keep breathing, Cora.” She shuddered and her teeth clacked together. While the Tribes were amusing to observe and trade with—no one forgot the wild tales. Tales of how the Tribes were unhinged in their daily lives, how the Tribes had no morals and were always _hungry_ , and not just for food. Peter gripped Cora’s chin. “Cora, _look at me_.” Her breath hitched and Peter relaxed when she met his gaze. “Talia,” Peter spoke without taking his eyes off his niece, “I’ll do it. I doubt it matters to them who the candidate is. Any warm body should do.” 

Peter wiped her tears and took comfort in her stabilized breathing and flushed cheeks. He couldn’t face his sister. He didn’t want her to see his face as the weight in his stomach soured and grew heavier. 

::::

Four months later Peter sat in an empty room at church. He studied his face, his hair, and his flattering tuxedo. The door opened and Cora slipped inside. She wore the summery green dress she hated because it hindered her movements. The rouge on her cheeks did a poor job of hiding her sallow skin. 

“U-Uncle Peter.” She took a deep breath and steadied her shoulders. Peter smiled at her and she flinched. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” He stood and left his reflection behind. The halls of the church creaked. Peter steadied Cora with his arm around her shoulders. “Chin up, darling. It’s a wedding. Everybody _loves_ weddings.” 

Cora pushed the doors open to the main room, and Peter swallowed as the entire town stared back at him. They smirked up at him with perverse, malicious delight. His family stood to the left of the altar while four of the Yukimura Tribe stood on the right, their masked faces hiding any judgment. 

Cora squeezed his arm before she joined Talia, Laura, and Derek. Peter stood at the center with the priest behind him, and the foxes stood, dressed outrageously, to his right. 

The only one who could be called elegant was their leader, standing at the front of the line. She wore a silk suit with deep red stitches against the dark fabric. Her Tribe behind her had slightly less ragged clothing, though they seemed to try and make up for the wear and tear with elaborate nail polish and tinted shimmer on their skin. It gleamed in the light, and just as Peter realized he’d been staring at them for far too long, the doors opened and Peter’s future husband walked along the aisle. 

Peter jerked his eyes to the front and kept his back straight as the Yukimura Tribe erupted into raucous cheers. Peter didn’t need to look behind him to know that the priest flinched. 

His soon-to-be-husband jogged down the aisle in heavy boots with worn out soles. He wore a suit jacket that had less of its original material than patches of whatever could fix the torn seams. His chest was bare, pale and lean. When he stepped up to the altar and slid his hands into Peter’s, he felt that something cold and wet coated his fiancé’s hands. 

“We’ve gathered here today to witness this holy union between Peter Hale and the Yukimura Tribe.” Peter clenched his jaw at the laughter that bubbled from the witnesses that didn’t quite cover the sob from Cora. His seconds-to-be-husband squeezed his hand, but with the mask Peter had no way of knowing if it was with sympathy or mockery. He snuck a quick glance to see that gold paint was splattered across the Fox’s chest and arms. The paint was cold against Peter’s fingers. “You may present each other with the rings.” 

Peter pulled his hands back to dig in his pocket for the simple gold band he’d had commissioned. 

“Peter, repeat after me: I, Peter Hale, pledge myself to the—the Yukimura Tribe.” Peter repeated the words, never taking his eyes off the fox mask. “In sickness and in heath, ‘til death do us part.”

He slid the ring onto his husband’s slick, gold finger as he finished his vow. The priest drew in a deep breath but the Fox held up his hand. 

“No offense, man, but your words don’t exactly reflect _me_. I got this covered.” The familiar deep rasp made Peter’s eyes widen. “I, Stiles of the Yukimura Tribe, take you, Peter, whether I’m sick, hung-over, or _beating the shit out of anyone who laughs at our holy union._ ” He shouted the last part out. The snickering witnesses choked into a grim hush. His grip was firm as he took Peter’s hand and slid on the ring. It was fused from two rings; one weathered gold band and the other a clearly Old World design fitted with glittering jewels. His husband—Stiles—squeezed his fingers with his gold hands. “You’re mine. I’m yours. Got it?” 

Peter smiled, his chest not as crushingly tight as it had been. 

“Got it.” 

The silence grew until Stiles bounced on his toes. 

“Great.” He turned to the priest. “Go on.” 

“R-Right.” The priest cleared his throat. “I now pronounce you husband and husband. You may now kiss the uh—uh—”

Before the priest could finish and before Peter could worry about the absurdity of kissing a mask, Stiles tore his hands free of Peter’s. In a quick, practiced motion, Stiles slid the mask to the side so it hid his face from the crowd while still revealing himself to Peter and the wide-eyed priest. 

He was younger than Peter expected. His voice and mask hid the fact that the intimidating presence was actually a _very_ young man. His brown eyes shone and his cheeks were flushed pink. He licked his lips and smiled, soft, shy, and so _far_ from what Peter imagined. 

Gold, paint-slick fingers dragged up Peter’s neck and cheeks until they wove through Peter’s hair. Stiles shot forward and his hands roughly pulled Peter’s hair, mussing it to ruin—

His lips were gentle, a sensuous press against Peter’s. His fingers brushed past Peter’s ears, he shivered and his lips parted for breath. Stiles hummed and slid his tongue along Peter’s lower lip. It wasn’t dirty, violent, or bruising like Peter had prepared himself for. Stiles brought his fingers down from Peter’s hair to his neck, sending shivers of fear and delight coursing through Peter’s veins. All the while Stiles gently sucked Peter’s lower lip between his teeth. 

Right as Peter began to feel light-headed from the lack of oxygen, Stiles drew back with one last, slow lick across Peter’s teeth. Peter had expected to be taken out at the knees, but not with lush lips and a dazzling grin. Stiles winked and slid his mask back into place. 

The Yukimura Tribe cheered, jumping and bouncing off each other. Even their leader clapped. Stiles leapt off the altar with a howl that had the entirety of Cold Spring falling over themselves to back away. Stiles turned to Peter. 

“Come on, husband. We need some fresh air!” 

He held out his hand with the smeared gold paint. Peter knew he must have looked wrecked, his hair sticking up in different directions and streaks of gold on his skin. There was no music and no one clapped him on the back with joyful well wishes. Everything was silent when Peter took Stiles’s hand. The Tribe, which previously had been cheering, hushed as they opened the doors and finally made it outside. 

Stiles led them to the cluster of motorcycles. He put on a jacket before holding one out to Peter. 

“It might be a bit tight.” He lifted his mask and smiled, much less manic. “I wasn’t sure who I was getting so I guessed in the middle.” 

“Thank you.”

The jacket was tight in the shoulders, but Peter didn’t mind. Stiles glanced at him before he went to one of the bags strapped to his bike and pulled out a mangy scarf.

“Here.” Stiles looped the material around Peter’s neck and tucked it into the ill-fitting jacket. “It gets cold on the back of the bike.” The other Tribe members sped off without a second glance. Stiles scooted up on the machine and then turned back to look at him. Peter wasn’t sure what expression was on his face but Stiles’s lips softened. “I’ll go slow. Just hold onto me and you’ll be fine.” 

Peter had never been on a motorcycle and he’d never left Cold Spring. He sat behind Stiles and the metal was hard and cold. He flinched when it growled to life and he squeezed Stiles tight. 

::::

Stiles hadn’t expected his husband to be so _old_. 

Well, Peter Hale wasn’t _old_ -old, but he had a number of years on Stiles. He thought the Hales would back off and stop pestering Noshiko about getting special treatment, but it seemed that their leader was willing to do anything… even if it meant marrying off her own brother. The drive took an extra two hours and the last leg, as always, was the hardest. 

East City was massive with towering ruins and so many people that Stiles ground to a halt, maneuvering around the ever-present sea of humans. 

Stiles felt Peter crane his neck to stare up at the huge buildings and worn down signs, some of them still had recognizable images on them – women smiling, displaying things in bottles with a too-white and too-perfect smile. Men dressed only in jeans while women drape over them. Most of the buildings were rotted but some remained as a cruel reminder of what the world had been. 

He used to hate them. The glimpses of the utopian Old World would send him into a spiraling, miserable rage. Years had passed and now he ran with a Tribe that aimed to put the pieces together to help remember. 

Peter’s arms tightened around Stiles’s middle. Out in the country it would be easy to pretend it was normal, living the way they did. There was no escape from reality in the cities. 

The Yukimura Tribe had taken over an old bank, mostly for the chains that they could lock over the windows and doors. The first set of doors led to another entrance and with the space between the two entranceways they stored their bikes. 

“Everyone is probably asleep so we’ll have to do introductions in the morning.” Stiles spoke as he stood his motorcycle by the others. When he turned back to Peter he saw that his new husband was looking ashen. “Here, give me your hands.” Peter stared at him like he was a wild animal. Stiles lifted up his mask and rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not going to bite. Your hands are cold as fuck, right? I’ll warm them up for you.”

Peter held out his hands. Stiles took them into his own and tried not to pay attention to how broad and soft they were. He brought them up to his mouth, blew on them and rubbed the warmth back into them. He guided Peter’s fingers to press against Stiles’s neck and chest to take more of his body heat. 

He remembered his mother doing that for him… so many years ago it seemed like another lifetime. 

Before Stiles had even made it to East City it was just his mom, dad, and him out in the wild. Those years had been harsh. Every day was a struggle and there were times when Stiles had trouble believing his parents when they said that there were other people in the world. Stiles thought it was just the three of them doomed to wander the earth for eternity.

Even with what Stiles knew now he still viewed those years as peaceful. They never stayed in one place for too long, and the crunch of snow beneath their boots was their anthem. Stiles liked the houses they’d camp in, he loved looking at all the things left behind and he’d ask his parents a myriad of questions about what the Old World had been like until his father would croak, _“Son, that’s enough.”_

Peter had more pink in his cheeks. Stiles let his husband’s hands fall away. 

“Feel better?” Peter nodded but his teeth clacked together as proper shivers set in. “We’ll get you warmer. The shakes are good. It means the blood is moving. If you’re ever out in the cold and you feel fine… that’s when you’re in trouble.” 

Stiles pushed open the second set of doors.

Their footsteps echoed on the marble. The Yukimuras stayed in the big safe while the rest of the Tribe Members got the offices. Stiles was lucky enough to have his own, tucked in the back halls and far enough away from the lobby that it retained heat. Stiles flipped on the lights, never that long to save juice—but he felt Peter tense behind him and he frantically shut off the lights. 

“U-Um.” Stiles blushed and cursed out Boyd and Erica, who were no doubt the ones who had decorated his room with dildos and anal beads. “Those were probably my asshole friends being _funny_.” Stiles didn’t dare look back at Peter as he swept the sex toys into his arms and shoved them back into their drawer. “Like, _mi casa es su casa_ and everything, but I feel like that might be a lot to—um, to start things on.” 

On the plus side, Stiles was no longer cold. He handed Peter’s bags back to him. Stiles hung his mask up on the wall and kicked off his boots. He relaxed, the smell of his room, his _home_ , anchored him. He undid his belt and dropped his jeans in the same fluid motion he did every night and he froze when he remembered he wasn’t alone. 

He jerked around to see Peter transfixed on his bookshelves. Stiles smiled. 

“See something you like?”

“On the shelf? Yes.” Peter didn’t look at Stiles. He picked books off the shelves and opened them very gently with his fingers stark against the pages. “You have quite the collection.” 

“Dude, you don’t even know. This is just my current rotation. I’ve got more in storage.” Stile was a lot less tired and nervous as he joined Peter at the shelf. “Do you have a book collection?” 

The Hales were affluent people. Peter could easily have an entire library at his disposal if he had the resources, and Stiles hoped that wasn’t the case because he knew he’d be heartbroken if someone tried to take him away from his books. 

“No. I brought mine with me. Not even a dozen.” 

They stood in silence for a while. Peter read the titles and ran his fingers over the spines. Stiles wondered why the Hales let Peter go, why did they toss him to the Tribes? 

“Well, take your pick. Could I take a look at yours?” 

“Go ahead. They’re in the small green bag.”

Stiles saw it and he shrugged off the rest of his clothes. He was glad he’d cleaned the sheets before the wedding; they felt so nice against his skin. He pulled Peter’s bag onto his lap and dug through it. For a limited collection Peter chose his pieces well—and then Stiles reached the last book. 

“ _Whoa_.” Stiles held _Murrow: His Life and Times_ to his chest as he fumbled with is bedside table for matches. He lit some candles and glanced at the cover. He could just make out the eyes, but the text was in tact. “Where did you get this?” 

Peter turned around and his eyes widened, flickering over Stiles’s nude form before jerking up to his eyes. 

“Believe it or not, I found it.” Peter crossed to the bed and Stiles noticed he was stiff, his back a little too straight. “My sister and I have lived in Cold Spring our whole lives. I found this in a neighbor’s basement under some boxes.”

“So you stole it.” Stiles nudged his husband with a wide smile. “I would have done the same.” Stiles threw back the covers and climbed in. “I won’t tell you what to do, but in the winter when the river is frozen we don’t get to wash our clothes as often as we’d like so… it’s probably for the best to give them a break at night, you know?” 

Peter undressed in silence. He stared at Stiles and not with desire. Stiles flushed and cleared his throat as Peter joined him in _their_ bed. 

“It’s the one thing I do remember about the Old World.” Peter said, and Stiles sat up straight, watching the light dance in Peter’s eyes. “I only wish I’d been old enough to have seen it myself… but my mother told me that his words,” Peter’s fingers tapped the book’s cover, “were the last ones spoken in the Old World.” 

The candle flames flickered when Stiles pushed out a breath. He shivered, though he couldn’t say it was from the cold. 

“Yeah.” Stiles opened the book gently. “Yeah, I’d heard somethin’ like that.” 

::::

Winters in East City were the worst. 

Finstock was too stiff and too cold to even have morning wood, not that he’d have the energy to deal with it. He sat up and his back popped in three different places. He grimaced at how the dry cracks in his hands were bigger than the day before. 

He swore sharply as he quickly pulled on his pants and a ratty shirt. Insistent knocks pounded at the front door and Finstock stumbled while he jammed his toes into his shoes. 

“Jesus, there is a God-damned _bell_ if it’s an emergency!” 

The knocking continued and Finstock was going to _murder_ whoever was being a menace at the crack of dawn, self-appointed Hippocratic oath or no. More bones cracked and he splashed some ice-cold water on his face and he clambered down the stairs to what the local Tribes lovingly called _The Chop Shop_. 

Finstock came from a long line of doctors. His dad had him sewing people up as soon as he could thread a needle. When the Old World ended Finstock’s bedtime stories became medical journals and textbooks. _“Remember, Bobby, this is important. The world needs people like us. Remember everything I teach you, and you teach it to every kid that you can.”_

His front door rattled, and Finstock growled. 

“Yeah, I’m coming, I’m coming—”

He stopped short when he saw a Yukimura fox mask staring back at him from outside his shop window. She bounced and waved. Just like that, the early morning rage left him. He smiled as he unclasped the locks. She ducked under his arm, the little bell ringing above her. 

“Good morning!” She placed her bags down on Finstock’s desk. “I would have waited but I didn’t want this to get cold.” 

She pulled up the mask and Finstock could barely feel his toes and his face itched because he needed a shave. East City winters were brutal and drained the color away from the world… and it was a good thing that Kira Yukimura was there to paint over the dreary days. 

“Do you know what time it is?”

“I know.” Kira’s cheeks were red from the cold. She smiled and took out a soup container out of her bag. “But Satomi’s chickens don’t lay a lot of eggs in the winter and you like hard boiled eggs and—and anyway, I grabbed you some.” 

She didn’t quite meet his eyes as she unveiled the steamy ramen with two sliced hard-boiled eggs floating on top of the noodles and broth. 

“Kira…” Finstock dug around his office for two spoons. “Come on. You’re sharing this with me.”

“No!” Her face fell, and Finstock couldn’t help but smile. “It’s not for me, it’s for you!” 

“Yeah, well, if it’s for me I’ll do what I want with it. You’re young; you need it more than me.” 

He pulled up two stools and they sat shoulder to shoulder and watched the sun bloom over the East City skyline. 

Soon the city would wake up full of aches, pains, and sickness. Scott would be there, a fresh-faced medical assistant who would be a fine doctor in a few years. The Chop Shop had no days off. According to his father, in the Old World doctors made money and could live comfortably. 

Finstock had The Chop Shop with the small loft above where he could try and get some sleep. He was a good enough doctor to have the Tribes keep an eye out for supplies and certain plants… and in Kira’s case, Satomi’s ramen. 

Kira cut one of the eggs with a spoon, her cheeks full with noodles. Some strands of her hair fell in front of her eyes and some black locks stuck to her cheeks. She swallowed and met his eyes.

“Oh God, is there something on my face?” 

Finstock was still doubled over in laughter by the time Scott arrived. Kira had her mask back in place and Scott’s eyes widened. 

“Hey, Kira.” 

Kira sighed and ducked her head. 

“Hi, Scott.” Finstock liked his assistant Scott. He had a level head and was a quick learner. Kira seemed to like him too judging by how her posture became more awkward when Scott was around. “Stiles will be dropping by soon.”

“Oh right.” Scott put his bags down before he drew Kira into a brief hug. “He got married yesterday, right?”

“ _What_?” Finstock choked down the last of his ramen. “Nobody tells me anything— _Stiles_ got married? To who?” 

“Uh… it was kind of last minute.” Kira cleared her throat. “They didn’t get back until late last night. I just met him this morning. Seemed okay. Kinda quiet but that’s not really a surprise, you know, culture shock and all.” 

She wrung her hands and smoothed out the wrinkles in her jacket. Scott began his usual morning inventory check and took down the rags Finstock had hung up to dry. Finstock watched Kira dig through her backpack. 

“Why the culture shock?”

“He, uh, he married a guy from Cold Spring, one of the towns out in the country.” Finstock saw Scott freeze out of the corner of his eye. “While I was there I got some stuff for you—and Scott too.” She pulled out fresh gauze, plants, and over a liter of rubbing alcohol. The last piece was a small blue jar and she pushed it into Finstock’s palms. “And this is for your hands.” 

Kindness, honest-to-God-no-strings-attached- _kindness_ was hard to find in the New World. Finstock got plenty of supplies from all sorts of people with the unspoken, “so you’ll fix me when the time comes.” It came with the privilege and burden of being a doctor. 

With Kira it never felt like she was paying him off. Because while she dropped off supplies on behalf of the entire Yukimura Tribe, she did it like she wanted Finstock to take care of himself first. 

“You’re one of a kind.” Finstock grinned despite his tight throat. He pulled her close and kissed the mask’s forehead, a standard farewell to a friendly Yukimura Tribe member. “I’ve seen all sorts of people come through The Chop Shop but no one quite measures up to you, Kira.” 

Her hands gripped his jacket. He heard the material creak in her white-knuckled grip before she released him. 

“Thank you.” She cleared her throat waved to Scott. “I’ll see you guys around. Outside. Or—or later. Bye.” 

She fumbled with the door and almost knocked off the bell in the process. She had to duck quickly to the side so she didn’t knock over Stiles and his new beau. 

“Ah, speak of the devil.” Finstock puffed out his chest and smiled at the new face. “I’m Doctor Finstock. Welcome to The Chop Shop.”

Stiles’s husband shook his hand. His smirk was a tad condescending, but Finstock didn’t blame him. There had been plenty of times he’d needed a scathing attitude to hide fear. 

“Peter Hale. It’s a pleasure.” 

Finstock curtsied while he squeezed Peter’s hand and got a feel of his distinct lack of calluses. 

“Enchanted. Scott, set Peter up behind the curtain and begin the routine checks, I’ll be just a moment.” He turned to Stiles. “So you’re a married man now, huh?”

“Yee-up.” Stiles made his lips pop underneath the mask. “We’re getting him a mask painted.” 

“Shame to hide that handsome face,” Stiles hummed and Finstock glanced toward the divider where Peter undressed, and Scott directed him to breathe deep while he listened with a stethoscope. Finstock lowered his voice. “Are you okay?”

“What? _Yeah_ , Finstock, what the fu—”

“C’mon, kid. You’re quieter than usual. I don’t need to see your face to know you’re not smiling like a typical honeymooner.” 

Finstock glanced back at Peter’s silhouette. Despite his soft hands, Peter Hale was bigger and older than Stiles. Finstock might have never seen Stiles’s face but he’d given the kid plenty of physicals and stitches to know that he layered his clothing to add the illusion of bulk. Finstock only knew what Scott had told him about life in the elite countryside towns and Finstock hadn’t liked what he’d heard. 

“Hey,” Stiles gripped Finstock’s shoulders and went up on the tips of his toes to press his cold fox mask to Finstock’s forehead. “Don’t stress about it, old man. I can take care of myself.” 

“Yeah.” Finstock felt the rough skin on Stiles’s hands as they pulled on Finstock’s cheeks. “But it’s good to have people in your corner, kid.” 

He left Stiles and joined Scott behind the curtain with Peter. Scott sniffed and Finstock reminded himself to make Scott drink herbal tea. 

“Mr. Hale is in very good condition.”

Finstock nodded, his eyes scrutinizing Peter’s body. 

“That’s what life in the country will get you, so I hear.” Finstock inspected Peter’s fingernails. There was some dirt but no blood and he didn’t appear to have any bruises on his body. “How are you adjusting to East City life, Peter?” 

“Fine.” Peter’s skin jumped every time Finstock pushed against it to check for inflammation and reflexes. “Just fine.” 

Scott handed him the stethoscope and Finstock pushed it to Peter’s chest and then moved to his back. His heartbeat was elevated but Finstock wrote it off as nerves. 

“You’re in great shape, Peter. I’m going to give you some herbal teas and vitamins to get you through the month, and I want to do a follow up in two weeks.” 

Peter pulled his clothes back on and raised an eyebrow. 

“I thought you said I was in great shape.”

“You are, but the rest of us in East City are not.” Finstock grinned, lopsided and manic. “Your immune system is accustomed to a limited number of variables plus you’ve been breathing that clean mountain air. I’m sure you’ve noticed that there are more people in one of our city blocks than in the entirety of your town.” 

The bell above the door kept ringing and another long day at The Chop Shop began. Finstock ushered Peter out from behind the curtain and Scott began to do check-ups on the line. Stiles batted Finstock’s hands off his husband’s shoulder. 

“All right, Finstock. I’ll see you around—” Finstock pulled Stiles into a hug and lifted the kid off of the ground. He squawked. “Oh my _God_ , let me go, you lunatic!” 

Finstock let Stiles wriggle free but kept his grip on his shoulders. 

“I want to see you in my office for a check up when Peter comes back.” 

“Yeah, _yeah_.” Stiles growled but still brought his mask up to Finstock’s forehead. “See you later, Doc.” 

Stiles ducked out of the door. Finstock shouted after him.

“And tell Kira to take it easy in the cold—”

Stiles flipped him off. Finstock rolled his eyes and turned back to his full Chop Shop. He cracked his knuckles. 

Just another day in East City.

::::

“You’re _sure_ you’re okay? I can stay behind, it’s no big deal.” Stiles shot Peter a quick look in the lobby of the Yukimura den. His mask rested atop his head, ready to be pulled down at a moment’s notice. The Yukimura leader, now known to Peter as Noshiko, kissed her husband Ken goodbye. Erica and Boyd were also wrapped up in a passionate embrace—and then there was Peter and Stiles who stood with considerable distance between each other. 

“No. I’m fine. Can you just—” Peter handed him a folded note; he was unable to find any wax to seal it with. “Could you give this to my niece Cora? I just want her to know that I’m okay.” 

Stiles took it and slid it into his inner jacket pocket. 

“Yeah, of course. She was the uh, brunette girl at our wedding who was… crying, right?” 

Peter smiled and enjoyed how it made Stiles squirm. 

“That’s correct.”

Erica, Stiles, and Noshiko were suited up for the long drive despite the upcoming snow. Winter was wrapping up but not before one more blizzard. Stiles licked his lips and his eyes darted to the Tribe people staring at him. 

“Okay.” Stiles slid his mask back into place. “I’ll be back soon.” 

The three foxes left while Boyd, Ken, Kira, and Peter remained in their wake. 

“Come on.” Kira rubbed her hands together; a stream of fog blowing out of her lips and rose. “Let’s get bundled up and ready to go.” 

Peter felt an odd sense of satisfaction when their footsteps echoed off the walls in time with each other. Kira kept her hand on Boyd’s back but only touched Peter briefly before he went back into Stiles’s—their room. 

He got dressed as quickly as he could, mostly in the clothes Stiles kept giving him, rags that were much more adept at keeping him warm than Peter’s clothes. Peter dug around under the bed for his bags when his hand hit something hard and metallic. 

“Fuck.” Peter jerked his hand back and his fingers throbbed. “Shit.”

He rummaged around for the metal box and dragged it out. He twisted the latches and opened the box only to immediately go still. Stiles hadn’t hid it because he probably assumed that Peter wouldn’t know what the various parts of Old World machinery meant. Statistically, Stiles would have been right, the odds were in his favor, but unfortunately Peter had an annoying habit of defying the odds. 

The machinery was familiar and Peter felt the itch of anticipation as he realized that Stiles was on his way to making an Old World radio: wires, transistors, and resistors. Peter felt an old, illicit thrill pass through him. 

“Peter?” Kira knocked on the door. Peter snatched out various screwdrivers and quickly closed the box. “Are you ready?” 

“As I’ll ever be.” Peter zipped up his jacket and grabbed his two bags before he left. Kira looked up at him, her smile kind and hesitant. “Lead the way.”

Boyd joined them in the lobby and they all lowered their masks to cover the faces. 

Though only a few months had passed Peter had learned a lot about what it meant to live in East City and run with the Yukimura Tribe. Most of the scavenging ended up collecting things they could trade with the other Tribes. Actually finding something for the Yukimura Tribe was a rare occurrence.

The Japanese Fox masks were not just for intimidation but also to prevent bias. With masks all of them were equal. Peter grew addicted to its comfort, to the silent authority that it gave him as he walked with Kira and Boyd.

The masks added an inhuman quality to them and Peter thought it was a brilliant move on Noshiko’s part. Kira _without_ her mask would clumsily flirt with a screwball doctor. Kira _with_ her mask effortlessly vaulted over a collapsed wall and threw back ropes to help Peter and Boyd over the other side. 

Snow twirled down from patchy holes in the ceiling. 

Peter slipped into a side room through a dismantled door. Boyd searched the main room while Kira set up a small shelter in case they got cold. Peter found rotted papers, too weathered and worn to decipher what they were. He tossed them to the side and then paused when he saw… what looked to be an audio switchboard. His throat went dry and he glanced over his shoulder to see Boyd and Kira were busy in their own sections. 

Peter took out Stiles’s tools and went to work. 

“Hey, Peter.” 

Peter spared a quick glance over his shoulder to check on Boyd. He hadn’t left his area, picking through decayed books on shelves. 

“Yes, Boyd?”

“What do you think of Doctor Finstock?”

Peter smiled despite the freezing hair and how it ate away at his hands. He’d have blisters again. He hoped he’d get the same calluses as Stiles sooner rather than later. 

“I was worried when I first met him.” Peter loosened screws and slipped them into his pockets. He gently eased the board off to expose the circuitry. “He’s brilliant, no doubt, but seems to be lacking certain observational skills.” 

Boyd burst out laughing and Kira whined. Peter turned to see Boyd wipe his eyes before he flashed Peter a grin. 

“Couldn’t have said it better myself, man.”

There were unspoken traditions and secrets in the Yukimura Tribe, one of them being the playful acknowledgement of Finsock and Kira’s unrealized romance. Kira flushed pink and she threw a clump of dead moss as Boyd. 

“You are all being so unfair.” 

“We’re really not, Kira.” Boyd had a warm, deep voice that would hum, letting everyone know where he was. Peter disconnected the cables and wrapped them carefully to prevent internal breakage as Boyd huffed out a sigh. “What do you even see in him, Kira?” 

Peter held his breath and moved the broken down audio board into his green bag. The Alpha Raiders, led by a man named Deucalion, specialized in Old World technology, so when anything was found, they’d keep it for him. Stiles either didn’t like him or had something greater than simple trading planned. Peter moved to a desk drawer only to find more dead paper. 

“He’s…” Kira trailed off, and in the next drawer Peter found CDs, a few in decent condition. “He’s funny.” Peter stood and ignored the loud crack from his knees. “He makes me laugh.” 

“I found something.” Peter waved the CDs at Kira. “We can save these for Jackson.” 

“Good find.” Kira gently flipped over Peter’s hands. “We’ll have to get Finstock to look at your hands before the day is done.”

They began at dawn and were able to pick through every inch of the first three floors. Peter was sure his mother would have known what kind of building it was, with its high ceilings and crackled wood floor. They sat in the lobby and split up their findings, bogging Boyd’s bags down since it was his turn to do drop-offs. It was dark when Boyd shouldered his bags with a grunt. 

“See you back at the den. Say hi to Doctor Love for me.”

Kira laughed as she pulled down her fox mask, but Peter caught the strain that pulled at the corner of her lips right before she secured her mask into place. 

Even after the months he’d been in East City; his entire body ached after a long day’s work. His hands throbbed, a painful heat insulating him against the wet snow. The streets were less crowded on wintery nights when the wind howled between the buildings. He walked with Kira in silence and didn’t say anything when he heard her sniff between thick, hitched breaths. 

She wiped her face under the mask and drew in several deep breaths when they turned onto The Chop Shop’s block. Through the windows, Peter saw that Finstock was dead asleep. His head was tilted back and his mouth hung open as he perched on a stool. Kira pushed the door open and the bell above the door jingled. Finstock jerked awake and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. 

“Wha—” Kira pushed up her mask and Peter followed her example. “Oh, good evening, Kira.” He gave Peter an impersonal nod. “How are you feeling?” 

“Me?” Kira smiled when Finstock shot her a look that could only mean _obviously_. “Yeah, I’m fine. I was hoping you could take a look at Peter’s hands.” 

“Of course. Bring ‘im here.” Peter turned his palms over and Finstock took hold of his hands. Finstock’s fingers poked Peter’s raw skin and Peter hissed. “Yee-up. Those are some gnarly blisters. Normally I’d say take it easy on the workload but there are no easy days in East City. So here’s what we’ll do.” 

Finstock got up and brushed himself off. His shop was a cluttered mess, but he moved with confident ease. Peter had seen Kira expertly rappel down the side of a building and handle a blade with ease… yet, The Chop Shop was where her assured nature left her stranded. Her eyes weren’t red; a blessing from the cold, and Peter could easily see that her affection wasn’t a laughable crush that faded with the seasons. 

Finstock returned with a small jar. 

“Put this on your hands once you’re home, then put on gloves or mittens while you sleep. It will repair some of the damage until you get calluses.” He moved his eyes to Kira. “Now you. Get over here.” 

Kira’s cheeks bloomed red. 

“I’m fine!” 

“Yeah, I’ll be the judge of that.”

He crowded into her personal space and slung his stethoscope forward. As crass and loud as Finstock was, his hands were always gentle and never felt invasive. He brushed Kira’s hair back over her shoulder and kept her steady with one hand on her arm while the other pressed the stethoscope to her chest. After a few beats he frowned and Kira swallowed. 

“It’s fine, Finstock.” She smiled, wide and painfully enamored. “I feel great. I promise.”

Finstock’s usually playful demeanor had withered and aged. His grim smile, a poor effort, made Kira avert her eyes. 

“I know you’re strong. I’ve seen you scale a wall like a spider, just… know your limits.” 

The snow howled outside. The wind blew hard and after a few blocks of silence Kira sighed. 

“He thinks I have a heart condition. But I don’t. I’m fine.” 

She walked ahead of him, both of their masks on. Peter hugged his arms close over his chest in attempt to keep warm. 

“How can you be sure that his diagnosis is wrong?” 

Kira stopped so quickly that Peter ran into her. 

“I went to another doctor to make sure.” She smiled. Peter heard it lift her voice. “It’s because my heart beats faster when I’m—well, you know.” They made it back to the Yukimura den and Kira unlocked the door. Snowflakes chased them inside. “Thanks for not laughing. It was funny at first.” Kira took off her mask. “It’s a good joke. It’s just not funny when it’s the same joke over and over.” 

Peter pulled his masks down and gently touched the raw marks it left on his face. 

“You’re welcome.” 

Kira quickly wiped her eyes. 

“Remember to take care of your hands. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

East City had its traditions and secrets. A tradition was to laugh with Kira when Finstock was mentioned. The secret was that she’d cry later, defeated by very few tears like the heartbreak was an old scar that didn’t bleed as freely. 

:::: 

Stiles hated blizzards. He hated the blinding snow, the razor-sharp winds, and the unforgiving ice. Noshiko and Erica were silent as they pushed the motorcycles through the snow. They’d turned back after Cold Spring, which was usually the first stop of many, but the snow was too heavy. Stiles kept Cora’s returning note close to his chest and tried not to let his clattering teeth get through his fox mask. 

They reached the bridge to East City five days after their usual turnaround date. Every step was agony and when it got this cold Stiles would hear his father’s voice on the wind. 

_“Run. Don’t wait for me, just keep running and I’ll find you—”_

The heavy snow always brought Stiles back to that panicked place he’d been as a child, running until his legs gave out, crawling until his fingers bled—then back to running until he ran all the way to East City.

It was late by the time he made it back. No one spoke as they made their way to their rooms. Stiles felt half-mad when he closed his door behind him and let his mask drop to the floor. His chest heaved painfully, the warmth suffocating. 

“Stiles?”

Peter sat up groggily with a confused yawn. Stiles dropped out of his wet clothes and kicked them to the side. 

“H-Hey. I d-d-didn’t mean to wake you.” Stiles held out Cora’s letter with his rubbed-raw fingers. “Cora s-s-sent this—she’s a firecracker.” 

Peter took the folded note from Stiles’s grasp and put it on the nightstand before he took Stiles’s hands into his own. The heat pulled an embarrassing moan from Stiles’s throat. 

“Come to bed, Stiles.” Stiles’s eyes shot open and he had a horrible thought that he had never made it back to East City, that he was actually dying and delirious out somewhere in the snow. Peter Hale, his handsome and naked husband, smirked. “You’re blushing, which is good. And shaking too—even better.” 

“Is this real?” Stiles jerked when Peter pushed him down onto the bed where he’d been laying, and it was so _warm_ Stiles could cry. Peter brought up the covers but remained close, half-draped on top of him. “Am I dead?”

Peter was so hot it was blissful to the point of pain. Peter pressed his wide palms to Stiles’s skin, making him shudder. 

“Would this be your Heaven or Hell?” 

He took Stiles’s hands and pressed them against Peter’s throat until he felt Peter’s pulse face under his numb fingertips. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Ask me again in five minutes.” Stiles kept his eyes closed and focused on his body acclimating to the warm environment. His muscles stopped seizing and he tracked the ability to _feel_ as it returned to his skin. “I hate winter.” 

Peter huffed out a tired laugh. 

“Sit up.” Peter didn’t give him much of a choice and pulled him up immediately. Stiles opened his eyes and Peter’s cheeks were red as he opened a canteen. “Drink. Finstock said you’d be dehydrated.” 

He spilled some water down his chest because he drank too greedily. His hands shook, and when Peter took the canteen away, Stiles got a good look at his husband’s hands. He took Peter’s hands into his own so he could inspect his palm, then he realized what he’d done and he dropped Peter’s hands. 

“Shit. Sorry.” 

Peter was smarter than Stiles had assumed and it was both a blessing and a curse. Peter watched him, studied him, and _listened_ to anything and everything anyone had to say. Stiles wouldn’t have given up someone like Peter. He’d never understand why Talia did. 

“You can touch me.” Stiles didn’t move. Peter’s eyes had him pinned in place. “You didn’t have any problems with it at our wedding ceremony.” 

“I _know_ but that was—that was _different_.” Peter raised an eyebrow and Stiles suddenly was much more awake. “Look, I saw the look on your face, you looked _sick_ , like you’d been sold off to some group of savage pirates—and all those fucking stuck-up assholes were fucking _laughing_. I know what our reputation is, and I was so pissed—I _wanted_ them to be afraid of me, of _us_. And I wanted to try and show—to make it clear to you that it was just for show, to put those bastards in their place.” 

Stiles licked his lips, chasing the memory of that kiss. He’d tried; he really had, to overlay his rough hands with a gentle tongue. Stiles’s breath was short, felt feverish and exposed—and not just because he was naked. 

He took a breath to continue but was silenced with Peter’s lips. 

Peter straddled Stiles’s thigh. His hot- _hot_ tongue licked into Stiles’s mouth. He whimpered, and when Peter pulled back, Stiles felt drunk. Peter with his perfect skin, his crooked hard-earned smile, and a mind so sharp Stiles was afraid it would gut him if he wasn’t careful. His husband’s weight in his lap was a sensuous comfort. 

Outside, East City froze in icy misery. Stiles would have to shovel them out of it in the morning, and yet that was the last thing on Stiles’s mind. 

He was too busy guiding Peter to the side so he was on his back and Stiles was over him. He kissed the corner of Peter’s mouth and down his neck, lingering at the hollow dip of Peter’s throat. 

“I missed you, too.” Stiles grinned against Peter’s skin and savored the burn from his husband’s stubble. “No one has your taste in books… and I haven’t even shown you the rest of my collection.” Though East City had worn on Peter’s hands, the rest of him was still impossibly beautiful. He was smooth where Stiles was littered with scar tissue. Peter shivered, and when he went to touch Stiles’s skin, Stiles shook his head. “No, you need to take care of your hands.” Stiles winked. “No unnecessary strain.” 

Peter huffed and returned his hands stretch behind his head. He looked like an Old World picture—a tanned handsome man on a beach, the water crystalline blue. He truly looked like he fell out of another time. 

“Are you going to keep staring, or will you do something? At least tell me more about your collection.” 

“Oh, you think you’re horny now?” Peter’s legs jumped when Stiles ran his nails lightly down Peter’s thighs. Peter was an odd puzzle. He spread his legs to give Stiles room, but his muscles twitched under Stiles’s hands. Stiles made sure not to scratch or squeeze too hard. He knew how frightening such an intimacy could be, especially if it wasn’t a common practice. “Just wait.” 

Stiles kissed the tip of Peters’ cock softly before slowly sliding his tongue around the head. Peter let out a wild cry that was the perfect marriage of shock and lust. Stiles whimpered in sympathy, his body hot because Peter chanted Stiles’s name madly, like he had tasted pleasure for the first time. Stiles shuddered at the thought. He pulled his lips off Peter’s cock. 

“Stiles,” Peter’s smug mask was gone and his eyes shone bright in the dark, “Stiles, _please_ —”

“Just wait,” Stiles licked his lips and it drove Peter wild, “until I show you some Shakespeare.” 

Peter went stiff and his first orgasm of the night came shortly after. Stiles kissed his thighs and smiled against his skin before he worked Peter up again and again. 

The taste of Peter’s moans erased any memory of sleet and snow. Peter was fire and Stiles never wanted to feel cold again. 

Hours later Peter stretched like a cat on their bed. They had a few minutes before the rest of the Yukimura Tribe woke up and began to get to work. Stiles rolled over when Peter got out of bed. 

“Where are you doing?” Stiles whined around a yawn. “It’s cold. Get back under the blankets.” 

Grey light slithered in from the windows. Stiles cracked his eyes open to see Peter digging around under the bed. He bit his lip and studied the marks he left on Peter’s thighs and shoulders. Peter looked up and saw Stiles’s hungry expression. 

“You’re insatiable.” 

Stiles grinned and pointed to his own neck and the teeth marks that he felt throb over his skin. 

“Then we make quite the pair.” 

He hadn’t been confident in the arraigned marriage when Noshiko had volunteered him, but he knew he could make the best of a bad situation. Peter had been brave and shrewd form the moment they met. Stiles was _lucky_ , and he hoped, if not today than sometime in the future, that Peter would feel the same. 

“I have something for you.” Peter pulled his green bag out from under the bed. He held it out for Stiles to take. Whatever was inside was heavy and it wasn’t books. Stiles sat up and Peter joined him in bed as Stiles opened the box. He blinked because he couldn’t _possibly_ be seeing straight. “I saw the machinery you are collecting. Will this help?” 

Radio components weighed down Stiles’s fingers. He wasn’t lucky to have Peter. It wasn’t lucky to have Peter, Stiles thought; he was destined to have him. 

::::

A real intact chandelier twinkled above Peter. His mouth dropped open behind his mask as he stared at it, in awe of its glittering beauty. He craned his head back to look. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” Deucalion, leader of the Alpha Tribe, purred at Peter. “Stiles doesn’t marvel at it anymore. I have to keep working to impress you, don’t I, Stiles?” 

Deucalion’s Tribe was stationed in a part of East City that came close to countryside life. Trees stretched through the dirt floor and past the brick walls to the sun. Spring brought green back into the city and the earthy scent of flowers and moss floated along the breeze. 

“Variety is the spice of life” Stiles _chirped_ , his voice two octaves higher than his usual rasp. Peter jerked his head down from gazing at the ornate walls and wilderness as Stiles giggled. “Gotta keep sharp, old man. Keep flexible.” 

When the Yukimura Tribe all gathered for dinner Stiles would laugh and lean on Peter, and when they were alone, his laughter would soften and his features would relax. This laugh was like burned honey—so sugary it was unpleasant. Deucalion chuckled, his eyes twinkling. 

“Fair enough. All right,” Deucalion clapped his hands together. “Let’s get down to business. Make yourselves comfortable.” 

He snapped his fingers and the guards at the doors jumped into action and provided beautiful wooden chairs. The old wood creaked as Peter sat down. 

“Again, winter was a light season for any tech.” Stiles unzipped his bag and Peter wondered if he caught the flash of enraged frustration that flickered across Deucalions’ face. “But I did find _some_ things that might tickle you.” 

If Stiles’s ridiculous voice wasn’t a hint, his bumbling modesty was. Stiles was never modest. He started out with nuts, bolts, and made sure to save the good finds for last, two black boxes with information hidden inside of them in a way that Stiles didn’t have the ability to unlock, and one intact cell phone. Relics of the Old World that had no use yet they made Deucalion’s’ eyes light up with unrestrained joy. 

“Oh _Stiles_ , when you drop by I know you’ll always deliver.” 

A good part of Stiles’s Old World technology collection was big finds that he’d use to distract Deucalion’s from lighter finds. Judging by Deucalion’s dazzling smile, the tactic still worked like a charm .

“Aw, schucks, Deucalion.” Peter’s shoulders jumped as he swallowed laughter. Stiles twisted comically in his chair. “Half the time people pass over this stuff as dead junk, but I figure if anyone has eyes for it, it’s you.” 

Deucalion laughed, but his guards never cracked a smile. 

Flowery wind washed over them and only when they were halfway down the street did Stiles finally relax. Deucalion had given them art history textbooks with the promise of working on _something bigger_ just for Stiles. Stiles lugged the bag on his back. 

“You sounded like a chipmunk.” Stiles snorted and Peter allowed himself to preen. “Not a fan of Deucalion?”

Stiles laughed and tugged on Peter’s arm. He pointed behind them, at the Alpha base that was all lit up. The flagrant use of electricity for constant comfort was unlike any other place in East City. 

“Wait for it…” Stiles tapped out each passing second on the inside of Peter’s wrist until all the lights went out. “He puts on a good show. But apparently back in the day his Tribe got all their goods through raiding. I wouldn’t trust anything that asshole says.” 

Cora’s simple note had said, _I’m glad you’re happy and safe._

He was sure that such a notion seemed unbelievable to his family. The thought of living in the claustrophobic squalor of East City would be a nightmare—and it had been the subject of Peter’s illicit dreams for many years. The reality… was much more grounded, and his husband made it easy, with his secret smiles and the feel of his palms on Peter’s body.

His husband was complex and Peter ached to think that very few realized Stiles’s depth.

Stiles kept to himself when they were outside of the den. If he had to speak it was direct, or in Deucalion’s case, a performance. Spring brought more sunlight and longer workdays. Peter’s legs burned at yet another stairwell, and he glared at Stiles’s back. His young husband hadn’t stopped once to catch his breath. 

“Not much longer.” Stiles turned, still wearing his fox mask while Peter had to lift his up in order to suck in air. “Need to stop?”

Peter’s legs shuddered and he shook his head. Stopping meant it would take longer and that he’d have time to look out the windows and see just how high up they were. 

“No. Keep going.”

“Going down is easier. This is the hard part.”

Later, Stiles would say they climbed fifty-four stories and Peter would be too exhausted to murder him. Stiles finally opened the door to their destined floor, eying each room before he moved to an unassuming door. Stiles felt around the moss that grew up the door and removed it to reveal a padlock. He dug in his pocket for keys and unlocked it. He held the door for Peter to go first. 

Despite his shaking legs and dry mouth… Peter’s eyes widened the moment he stepped through the door, and he immediately slid to the floor. 

The entire room was clean. Peter breathed deep and his vision blurred from the exhausting climb. Stiles touched his face and pressed his canteen against Peter’s lips. 

“Open up. You need water.” Stiles poured the water down Peter’s throat as his heart pounded. Peter took the canteen as soon as he was able. “Here, I have some pork buns in my bag.” 

Peter’s head fell back against the wall. The water grounded him. Stiles gave him one of Satomi’s pork buns before he began to massage Peter’s legs. 

The tiles had been scrubbed clean, the chairs repaired, and Peter felt as though Stiles had opened a portal to the Old World. 

“You did this?”

Peter spoke around half-chewed bun. Stiles dug his thumbs into Peter’s muscles.

“Yeah.” Stiles finally took off his mask. His skin was covered in splotches of sweat and dirt. He met Peter’s eyes and smiled. “It took a long time. I was lucky I even found it, I tore apart so many buildings looking for one radio station that hadn’t been gutted—I mean, now I’ve got legs of steel.” He slapped his thighs and laughed. Peter pulled him close and captured his lips in a long, biting kiss. Stiles moaned and flailed until his hands grabbed Peter’s shoulders. He drew back with a shiver. “What was that for?” 

Peter kissed him again, softer. 

“You always show me the most beautiful things.” Stiles bit his lip like he doubted himself. Peter rested his hands on Stiles’s hips and caressed the exposed skin with his fingers. “In Cold Spring, it’s as if they’re scared of it—of what we used to be. They’re happy tending to their farms and gardens, they’re happy to stay in one place and never move forward.”

Stiles’s doubt dissolved. Peter saw it in the ease of his eyes. 

“Doesn’t sound like you.” 

“You’re not wrong.” Thinking back to Cold Spring felt like a dream, a beautiful place with rolling hills where technology and reaching towards a future more like their forgotten past was forbidden. “My sister hoped my interests would wane into something more acceptable. Our marriage was the miracle she’d been waiting for.” 

Stiles’s grip on Peter tightened. 

“Well fuck her then.” Stiles pulled Peter to his feet and turned away to wipe his eyes. “I haven’t been able to connect the antennae but—it can play CDs.” 

Stiles dug under the desk and he came out with a plastic case. He flicked on the audio board and Peter felt his body throb when the lights twinkled to life. The machinery hummed as Stiles opened a drive and slid in the CD. The speakers crackled and Stiles adjusted the volume. 

_“—more on the protests at eleven. Moving on to the issue of privacy and our phones, what is your provider sharing with—”_

The man’s voice cut out and the sound of someone taking a shaking exhale replaced him. The new person cleared their throat twice before they spoke. 

_“This just might do nobody any good.”_ A woman’s voice filled the speakers, and though she sounded nervous, when she continued her tone demanded undivided attention. _“My name is Auberon Stilinski.”_ Peter’s blood went cold and his hand slid into Stiles’s and he squeezed. _“Our time together will be brief and I will try to make every word count. This country I love has changed. Our history suggests we are exceptional, that we are a land of promise and freedom, and for a time we were. We were not without flaws—but in the end we were a reflection of progression.”_

There was a long pause. 

_“Our country has been sick for a long time… and we’ve been fighting this disease to the best of our ability. However, I cannot say in good conscience that we are winning anymore. We are tired. We are angry. Hope for recovery through our previous methods has passed us. I’ve thought of how such a large and ancient machine could be fixed. This is my solution.”_

_“We’ve turned form a superpower into a nation to be feared. I am removing us from this label. To anyone this reaches overseas, I hope you can breathe easier. I sincerely hope this is not a goodbye from my country. I hope that the recovery from my solution will rid us of our toxins. The toxins I am referring to are those powerful, corrupted individuals who use fear and the poisonous pulls of bigotry to further their gain.”_

_“Tomorrow our country will be silent. Technology as we know and rely on will not connect us anymore. It will not be easy. I anticipate there will be madness, and not the madness of a machine but that of a feral animal. I believe we can recover with time and that the terror we’ve instilled in the rest of the world will be eased.”_

She sighed with the exhaustion of the many. 

_“A great man said, ‘Our history will be what we make of it.’ Today I ask my country to face fear and overcome it. Tomorrow we will be plunged into a technological dark age. There is no escape from this. But I urge you to never give up hope. We need to bleed to near death before we can hope to recover.”_

Peter wondered how many had stood on the same clean tiles and listened to the same speech that executed the Old World. His mother had seen it and was able to vaguely describe it, but to hear it himself was a new and thrilling experience. 

_“I believe in my country and I hope one day it will regain the right to stand tall with the rest of the world. They say time heals all wounds and I sincerely hope that is the case. Good night, and good luck.”_

Endless questions weighed on Peter’s tongue. History loomed over him. Had Auberon felt the same thrill over sixty years ago? Did she realize just how important her actions would be? How did she speak through the knowledge that every word would live forever? 

“You think we’re ready to try and get back up again.” Even though it wasn’t a question, Stiles nodded. He trembled like a leaf. Peter rubbed his thumb over Stiles’s knuckles. “What do we need to get us there?”

History’s orbit was inescapable. Once it dug its fingers in there was no turning back.

::::

Kira’s fingers ran through Stiles’s shaggy hair. He hummed, the sound nearly lost against the summer cicadas. Kira twirled her least-rusty scissors in her hand. 

“How short do you want it?”

“Not too short.” Peter answered from the armchair. Stiles scoffed and Peter stretched, arching his back and neck. “I’m thinking of you, Stiles, and how much you enjoy it when I pull your hair.” 

Pink spread up Stiles’s neck and ears. 

“Geez,” Stiles rolled his eyes, “short, but enough so you can grab it.”

Kira snickered. 

“You got it.” 

The sky was a deep violet and fireflies began to flicker to life. Boyd and Erica drifted in, their skin wet from bathing in the river. Erica sprawled out over Peter just to hear him scream about keeping his clothes dry. Kira snip-snipped away Stiles’s excess hair and felt a heavy anchor of _content_ settle in her chest. 

Boyd, Erica, and Peter exchanged stories and the occasional shove as Kira finished. Stiles sat up and shook his head before he turned to her with a smile. He held her gaze until Kira spoke. 

“What?”

“You look happy.”

“So do you.” 

He did and it wasn’t just the fading hickies on his neck or Stiles’s smug smile when Peter would wake up with a hoarse voice. Stiles had always been full of manic energy. It mostly worked in his favor when it came to scavenging but it was never enough. He used to bite his nails until they bled and would go for days without sleep. 

His feet still bounced, and there were times when the circles under his eyes would darken—but his smile had brightened. 

Stiles drew a breath to continue when Noshiko shoved open the den’s doors. She took her mask off, and her face was dark. Kira and Stiles stood immediately, the others scrambling to right themselves. Her mother’s lips were pressed into a thin white line, her eyes flickering over them all. 

“Suit up. If you have body armor, wear it.” 

Alarm sent everyone moving and Kira ran to catch up with her mother. 

“Mom?” She followed her mother into her room where her father had just finished tying his shoes. “ _Mom_ , what’s going on?” 

Noshioko Yukimura was a name that made people stand taller and make room. Her mother was an ancient dragon who didn’t need to raise her voice to be heard. Her mother was never scared of anything, yet when she closed the door behind them, her hands shook. 

“Deucalion has sent for all of us to come to collect a major find.”

Kira’s father took his wife’s hands and rubbed them, his brows furrowed with worry.”

“That seems very suspicious.” 

“No shit,” Noshiko bit out, and immediately softened when the vulgarity made her husband’s eyes widen. “Sorry, I just… hate this feeling.” 

She drew Kira and Ken into a tight hug. 

The Alpha Tribe gained obedience through fear of what they had been in the past; the silent implication of _we could always go back to our old ways_. Kira didn’t have any clear memories of their violence, but she did remember how her mother’s grip on her would tighten when an Alpha Tribe member would walk past. 

The East City streets were hushed in a tense silence. Shadows lingered, watching, and Kira knew her mother had called in for backup. Just in case. Not that it would be needed. Kira’s hand hovered over her blade’s sheath. 

All the lights in the Alpha base were on, in their typical fashion. Noshiko went through the double doors first and Deucalion waited for them in the foyer, his tribe behind him on the stairs and standing along the second floor balcony. Deucalion kissed her mother’s hand. It was more of a press of his teeth against the back of her hand due to his grin. 

“Thank you for coming so quickly. I know it was sudden, but I wanted to have all of you here for this.”

Kira and Ken stood on either side of Noshiko when Deucalion unwrapped a book in pristine condition and gave it to Noshiko. Kira heard the rest of their Tribe shift from side to side, resisting the temptation to look over her mother’s shoulder. 

Kira didn’t read the title. She was transfixed by the face on the cover—a smiling woman who was a spitting image of _Stiles_. Her mother’s grip tightened on the book. 

“Where did you find this?” 

Deucalion rocked back on his heels. His eyes left her mother’s mask and locked on Stiles. 

“A long time ago, when most of you were wee babes, I was out with my Tribe scavenging in the countryside after a mean blizzard.” His grin widened. Cold sweat gathered on the back of Kira’s neck and every sound became crisp and clear, from her pounding heart to the grind of Peter’s teeth. “I came across a man who had this on him. I recognized his face. He was Auberon Stilinski’s son.” 

_Auberon Stilinski._

It was a name everyone knew. Though most was lost during the early ears of the New World, the name Auberon Stilinski remained. She was the woman who shut everything off and killed the Old World. It was a name that was rarely spoken aloud yet was known by everyone. Behind her she heard Stiles’s breathing quicken. Kira turned. 

“Stiles?” 

“He was like an old dog. Had a lot of fight in him, which was admirable. He gave us the runaround and he didn’t bother lying about who he was—but he _did ___lie about being alone. And let me assure you,” Deucalion purred with perverse glee, “when I want someone to tell me all their secrets, I get them. He was convincing.”

Stiles trembled and Kira saw tears slide from underneath his mask and down his neck. His long fingers curled into fists. 

“He said a word with his last breath that I thought was nonsense, maybe something his whore mother said… but then we found footprints in the snow all the way to East City. And that’s when I remembered that this man, this father, had said a name.” Stiles took a step back and Deucalion had a pistol pointed at Stiles’s mask within a matter of seconds. “Seifer Stilinski.” Deucalion’s smile disappeared. “Take your fucking mask off.” 

Stiles flung his mask to the floor and it shattered. His eyes were red and burned with endless fury. Unlike everyone else in the room, Noshiko hadn’t turned to look at Stiles. 

“Deucalion, put the gun dow—”

Kira knew that there would be no negotiation. Deucalion wasn’t unstable; his actions wouldn’t be able to be swayed with gentle words. He acted against the name of the woman who had damned them all to the New World. 

A part of Kira understood. She remembered being young and playing with kids, talking about taking on the Evil Auberon. She was every villain to all stories. Kids had the same dream of traveling back in time to stop the evil witch from casting their parents and grandparents into darkness. Everyone had that dream, Kira included. 

She moved, Peter as well, but Kira was faster. She didn’t look at the gun, only Stiles, and her fingers reached his shirt just as Deucalion pulled the trigger.

::::

Summer meant thick pollen and infections. It meant sweltering days and suffocating nights. Finstock felt like he had seven layers of dirt and grime on his face and he still had a mother and kid with coughs and not enough balm for them both. Scott washed his hands and then the doors to The Chop Shop burst open. 

An older couple fell through the doors and the husband’s was bleeding badly from his throat and the wife was shot in the shoulder. Others came in after them, and all Finstock had to do was look at them to know that the older couple were the priority—that every second needed to count. 

“Scott, you take care of the others!” 

“Him,” the woman snarled, “take care of him.” 

Finstock went to work. He applied pressure and sewed with a steady hand. He dug the bullet out of the woman’s shoulder and generously washed alcohol over the wound. He pulled back and his vision expanded until he wasn’t just focused on points of injury. 

The wife’s severe expression softened as she kissed her husband, once on the lips, cheek, forehead, then back to his lips. The husband brushed her hair back and whispered something that wasn’t English. Finstock didn’t need to understand it to recognize the deep affection behind it. 

Finstock’s arms ached and his heart thudded against his ribcage. He wiped sweat from his eyes and squeezed the back of his neck. When he blinked he saw that Kira was sitting on his desk, watching him with her dark brown eyes. She had a deep cut across her lips that had been sewn together. 

“Kira.” Finstock’s voice was harsh, harsh enough to make her flinch. “Are you okay?’

“I’m fine.” He pushed her legs apart so he could stand between them. Her cheeks were warm, which was a good sign. “Really, Finstock. Scott fixed me up.”

“I’ll be the judge of Scott’s handiwork.” Finstock got close so he could study Scott’s stitching and the mended slash on the right side of Kira’s lips. It started on the slope of her chin and ended just above her lip. He traced the sides of the stitches. “Very good. Kids’ a great learner.” His thumb caught on Kira’s lower lip. He took his eyes off her lips and met her gaze only for his stomach to drop. “ _Scott_!” 

He heard his assistant jump. 

“W-What, Finstock?”

“Tell me you checked her for a concussion—that’s one of the first things you do—EMT One-oh-fucking- _one_!” 

“I did!” Finstock whipped his head around to glare at Scott. “I _did_ , of course I did—”

“Then why are her fucking eyes dilated—?”

Warm palms gently cupped his face and turned him back. Finstock thought he couldn’t be surprised anymore, that East City had beaten the surprise out of him. He had a lot of expectations for his life, and they mostly involved solitude and passing his knowledge along to as many minds as he could. 

Kira leaned forward and brought their lips together. 

Each soft point of contact was thrilling and _bright_. Kira’s fingers caressed the back of his neck and when he whimpered he felt like he was singing. 

::::

Blinding rage and anguish wiped Stiles’s mind clean. A chaotic meditation—a roar drowned out everything that wasn’t Deucalion and the gun aimed at him. He had no time to reflect on his mother and father, or his grandmother Auberon whom he’d never met. He didn’t think of the years when it was just him and his father out in the country—until it was just Stiles. 

He heard the gunshot followed by screaming and the wind being knocked out of him as Kira yanked him to the floor. Peter dropped on top of them and there was so much screaming and movement—and Stiles wasn’t dead. He pushed himself up to see Deucalion wailing as he clutched his face with blood pouring through his fingers. 

Kira’s fist grabbed him by the shirt and the rest of the Alpha Tribe started shooting. 

Stiles couldn’t keep track as Kira dragged him out, Peter right behind them. Stiles twisted around because he heard Noshiko shout and he couldn’t see Erica or Boyd. 

Their busted sneakers slapped against the pavement until a semblance of quiet washed over the streets. Kira, Stiles, and Peter came to a stop. Kira heaved in breaths, her eyes wide and faraway. Gunshots made them all flinch. 

“Stiles,” Peter squeezed his hand, “we need to go.” 

Kira nodded but her eyes were turned toward the dark where they’d come, to where the rest of the Tribe was. Stiles touched her cheek. 

“Kira.” Her eyes welled with tears and Stiles’s voice cracked. “Go. I’ve got Peter.” He hugged her tight and she squeezed him so tight it hurt. “Be safe.”

She kissed his cheek. 

“You too, Stiles.” 

She pulled him away and ran into the dark. Peter tugged on Stiles’s hand. 

They only had time to breathe and run; even when they made it to the secret radio tower they were silent as they hiked up the stairs. Fireflies buzzed around them and Stiles twisted the key in the lock and pushed the doors open. 

He wondered if his grandmother had felt the same fear as he turned on all the generators they’d collected. The entire floor sang with electricity. Peter looked in awe as Stiles turned on the audio board. The speakers hissed and Stiles’s hands shook as he turned the dials, searching for a frequency. He swallowed. 

“What if it doesn’t work?” Stiles’s breath was short and burned his lungs. He turned to look at Peter. “I’ve only ever read about it—I don’t know if I can—”

Peter kissed him and tangled their fingers. Stiles squeezed Peter’s hand and didn’t let go as he searched the airwaves. 

East City went on. Deucalion hunched over the gun that had misfired and lodged hot metal in his eyes, Erica and Boyd held down the Yukimura den, and Finstock murmured, “we need to be careful with your stitches,” and she had pulled him back with a, “just kiss me.” 

_“Excuse me,”_ an accented voice boomed over the speakers as Stiles froze the dial to isolate the frequency. _“How exactly did you get this frequency?”_

“You can hear me?” Stiles’s fingers twitched in Peter’s grip. “You can really hear me?” 

_“Of course I can bloody well hear you. This is Jack Holden, London’s premier radio host—and I honestly have no idea how you’re even butting into my signal. Who the hell are you?”_

Stiles locked eyes with Peter and his chest bloomed with the thrill of the future—of the certainty that whatever was waiting for them wasn’t more of the same. Stiles grinned and grabbed the microphone. 

“Let me tell you, it’s good to hear your voice,” Decades ago his grandmother had sent them into the New World and Stiles was going to do whatever it took to bring them back to the Old World. “My name is Stiles Stilinski, and I’m calling to you from East—from New York City.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it's a tad bit late, for from2016! For the Steter Secret Santa exchange! This was a wild ride to write... because I can't make anything easy on myself it can't JUST be arranged marriage, it needs to be punk. Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy this! Please, let me know what you think, even if you hated it! All comments and criticims welcome. 
> 
> Special thanks to @WritersAreLiars for being an amazing cheerleader through and through!
> 
> EXTRA special thanks to Julie, my lovely beta!


End file.
